


Or Else Into the Light

by RageSeptember



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Emotions, Complicated Relationships, Darth Vader Lives, Force Ghost(s), Gen, Reconciliation, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-06 21:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20298115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: Anakin, into the light.A collection of vignettes detailing how the Chosen One returns. It is rarely easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Recently returned to the light, the man who was Darth Vader struggles to find peace through meditation. An old friend shows up to help. This, too, is hard.

The first time he might have fled, given the chance: 

The initial meeting with representatives from the Chandrilan House ran unexpectedly short, and once he had nodded a curt goodbye to the other members of the council he allowed himself to retreat to his room. An unusual treat - normally he would remain in the common areas, doggedly inserting himself into the daily lives of the Rebels. He would do it unobtrusively, if possible, as not to provoke conflict or promote tension, but he would always be very much _there_, undeniably present. Letting himself be seen; claiming a space; helping where he could and was allowed.

He supposed that this, too, was a kind of penance.

Not only that, though; not even primarily that. He knew that if he wanted to make a real difference here with the Alliance, they would need to accept him, trust him. That could not be achieved if he hid away in his rooms.

Perhaps it could not be achieved at all. Incidents of actual (attempts at) violence or overt hostility had been surprisingly rare in the few weeks since he had thrown his lot in with the Rebels, but the undercurrent of fury and suspicion just barely held in check rarely abated. If Luke had been there it might thave been different, but Luke was not, and it was not.

Turning a corner, he pushed open the wooden door to the chambers he had been assigned upon their arrival early this morning. The room was spacious by Alliance standards, and luxurious. As per Chandrilan custom, the furnishings were simple enough, but the bed was large, the floor antique stone tiles, and the windows high and arched. The vivid blue of the carpet accented the earthy browns of the stone and wood.

As the door closed behind him he felt his shoulders sink just the fraction of an inch. Solitude was a luxury he rarely indulged in nowadays, and while his own company was not something he'd wish upon his worst enemy (well, maybe upon his _worst _enemy, one last time), it was a relief to be away from angry, fearful eyes and angry, fearful thoughts.

He'd drawn strenght from those not so long ago. Not anymore.

Less fear here though, and a lot less anger, than on the main base. Only the High command, of which he was now a very inofficial member, had been invited to Chandrila for these covert negotiations. It was the truly formidable Mon Mothma who had arranged the secret conference held in a small town far, far away from the capital and prying Imperial eyes, and though she'd never come outright and said it, he had been given the distinct impression that the House's willingness to meet with them was due in part to his own recent defection. Though having him join them was closer to a PR disaster than a victory for the Rebels, there was no denying that his presence _changed_ things.

Things became possible that had not previously been so.

and so: there'd be a formal dinner later, and he'd be expected to attend. He did not look forward to it. One of the relatively few perks of being Darth Vader had been the tacit understanding that he did not, as a rule, need to show up for any state dinners or other functions, unless he so chose or there was particular threat to be dealt with.

A glance at the ornamental time piece over the door told him that dinner was still more than two hours away. That was a lot of time to kill, particularly for someone who had not bothered to cultivate any hobbies beyond work and the occasional tinkering with machines for the past twenty years. Stuck here, there was little enough in the way of work he could do, and he doubted the Chandrilans was in need of a repairman.

With a inward sigh he decided it was a good time as any to have another go at meditation. Removing his boots, he sat down in the middle of the thick carpet with his legs crossed, and closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, and reached for the Force.

Always more suited to action than to contemplation, he had often struggled to stay relaxed and centered while sitting still and doing nothing. At least as a Jedi – as a Sith and drawing on his pain and hatred and rage it had proved much easier, and a source of both rejuvenation and sharpened focus.

Thus he had learned the value of meditation, as he had learned so many other things: much too late and for the wrong purpose. And now, when he ached to simply rest in the light and let its warmth and peace permeate him, it was again proving very, very hard.

Impossible, so far, every time he had tried.

But he was not one to balk from a challenge. Taking another deep breath, he forced himself to unclench his fists and relax. Slowly, calmly, into tranquility, nothing but the Force around him -

Five hearbeats he managed. Five hearbeats, before they started creeping up on him: memories and visions, guilt and grief, the remnants of a pain and rage so vast it tainted everything, coloured it black and red.

It was always like this, as soon as he let himself lower the shields he kept so carefully in place at all other times. Those shields allowed him to keep walking and talking rather than succumbing to the weight of the past twenty years, but the second he let them slip –

He tried to ignore it, push past it, _reaching_ for the tranquil light, but to no avail. It fled him, and all that was left was the roar of his own churning mind.

Breathing heavily and with heart hammering, he opened his eyes. The taste of defeat was familiar by now, but no less bitter for it.

Too hard. Too hard, even for him.

_Kark that_. Setting his jaw, he closed his eyes once more. His younger self would have given in to sulking by now, he knew with some shame; that boy had been so used to mastering almost everything with ease that he had little patience to practise the rest.

That boy was gone, for better and for worse.

Again, he relaxed, iron will overriding they body's natural response to the stress and anxiety.

”Don't worry so about relaxing,” a soft voice intoned. ”Concentrate instead on the sensation of your limbs pressing down on the floor.”

He sat completely still, frozen. The voice had come from behind him and been utterly, impossibly familiar. He'd have dismissed it as an audiotory hallicunation, not entirely unknown to him these days, had he not also been able to feel the intruder's presence, steady and bright in the Force.

_Obi-Wan._

He did not turn. Did not move. Did not even attempt to parse the many, intense and conflicted feelings coursing through him.

”The sensation of your limbs pressing against the floor,” Obi-Wan repeated, giving no indication that he had noticed the turmoil he had caused. ”And _breathe_.”

Belatedly, he realized that he had been holding his breath, so still had he been. Now he carefully let his chest rise and fall with a long, slow breath. Another.

And another.

”Focus on the sensation of your limbs pressing against the floor,” Obi-Wan said for the third time, and this time he did, if only because utterly at an loss what else to do. Focused: bottom and heels, pressing down, the floor hard and somewhat cool against them.

”Good,” Obi-Wan said, and the small, casual word brought with it a wave of pleasure that threw him. It was absurd that such a tiny morsel of praise could mean anything to him now. Absurd, that the man he had murdered would offer it. ”Now, your calves.”

He did as he was told. And so, part by part, he was guided through a careful examination of his restored body in the very first, the most basic, of all meditation exercises. Nothing about the Force, light side or dark – although of course everything that existed was about and of the Force, and so too was this. Whenever his mind began to stray and the darkness began to stir, Obi-Wan's calm voice drew his attention back towards his hands, his spine, his neck. _Breathe_, in and out. Feel your chest rise and fall, unassisted. Listen to the faint humming of a generator two rooms away. Whatever is, let it be.

Nothing else was said. He kept his eyes closed and never once turned his head to catch a glimpse of his unasked helper. When eventually he realized that he was alone once more, he could not have said how long it had been so.

Even as he rose, his initial feelings of unease and confusion begun to reassert themselves, disspelling the calm of the meditation. Yet this was tempered by the knowledge that for a little while, he _had _known peace. Not impossible, then – not even now, and not even for him.

He wondered what it had cost Obi-Wan to grant him that, and for what purpose it had been done.

\---

The second time he sought and feared in equal measure:

For the next few days he kept busy enough that there just wasn't time to meditate. There were meetings, longer every time, a renewed effort to socialize, lightsabre practise to pick up, and would you look at that, it appeared the Chandrilans _did_ need a repairman after all – the state of the basic maintenance techonology of the villa was _not_ up to scratch, if you looked hard enough...

Eventually he was forced to admit he was making excuses. This annoyed him so much that he stormed to his room and more or less threw himself down on the carpet, cursing himself for a coward.

If pressed – had anyone known to press him – he would not have been able to say what scared him more: that Obi-Wan would show up again, or that he wouldn't.

As it turned out, the voice came almost immediately, before he had had time to take more than few breaths.

Gratitude then, wordless and overwhelming. Something sharp and painful lodged in his throat, and for the first few moments his attempts to swallow it down distracted him from Obi-Wan's instruction. But the other man was patient and repeated himself without reproach until he was heeded.

It was easier this time, and became easier still the time after that, and the one after that.

They remained on Chandrila; negotiations were going well. Others joined them, delegates from several different worlds, as what had begun as a small and tentative meeting grew into something different and larger. The rumour was spreading: Darth Vader had joined the Rebels. The Rebels might have a shot. Trusted or not, liked or not, he was _needed_ now, and kept busy at almost all hours of the day. So much knowledge to share, so much to plan and prepare – and so many times to be presented and paraded about, _he is here, ours, all that power, notice how he isn't strangling anyone._

He played along, to the best of his ability. But no matter how much he had to do, or how late it was when he returned to his room, he always took the time to meditate. Once more, and with the help of his ghostly guide, it offered the rest and clarity he could find nowhere else, least of all in sleep.

Obi-Wan was there every time, appeared the moment he closed his eyes, always. The dead Jedi never appeared _before_ that, and never tried to coax him into conversation. Indeed, he never offered anything at all that wasn't instruction. The man on the floor kept waiting, heart in his mouth, for the other to say _something_, and finally force him to acknowledge his presence.

Obi-Wan never did. Obi-Wan had always been patient, and wise.

They were well into their tenth session when _he _was finally the one who spoke, the words spilling over his lips almost involuntarily:

”Why are you being kind to me?”

At first there was no answer. The silence dragged out, enough that he almost began to suspect that the other had left. But he could still feel his steady presence in the Force, and eventually Obi-Wan replied: ”Would you prefer me to be unkind?”

_Yes_, he thought but did not say. It wasn't entirely true – but not entirely false either. It'd be easier in some ways, he suspected, if the friend he'd betrayed would rage and berate and condemn. He could deal with that; was used to it; could not deny its appropriatness.

”A question for a question is not much of an answer,” he said instead, evenly. Control – he was good at it now, had needed to learn to survive, and he wondered if Obi-Wan appreciated the irony of that.

”Perhaps not,” the ghost of his old mentor conceded. ”But perhaps it is part of the answer.” A brief pause. ”Perhaps I am being kind, as you put it, because I believe you need me to be. And perhaps what you judge as kindness is merely the absence of expected _un_kindness.”

”There's no reason for you to help me.” Curt, almost angry.

He could damn near _hear _Obi-Wan raise an eyebrow. ”On the contrary. It is quite obviously in everyone's best interest to keep the Chosen One firmly rooted in the light. Anything I can do to aid that is a direct service to the galaxy, and to the Force.”

There was a familiarity to this that was both comforting and deeply unsettling. The cultured voice, calm, reasonable, and yet utterly unyielding, Obi-Wan may be humble, but he was also stubborn – and utterly confident in his own understanding of the Force, and his place within it. It seemed death had done nothing to change this.

He nodded. ”I see. Your presence here is a means to a end. Your duty as a Jedi. That is all.”

That made perfect sense. The Chosen One was a terrible weapon, no matter which side wielded him, and only a fool would refuse the use of such power when facing the might of Darth Sidious. It was the only reason the Rebels, with great reluctance and after much debate, had accepted him, after all.

And so there was no reason for a simple statment of this fact to hurt so.

Obi-Wan's voice was infinitely gentle, and almost as sad. ”That is not all. But I think it might be all you're ready to accept right now.” Another pause, longer now, and he imagined the other rising – if indeed he had been sitting, did spirits bother to sit? – as he prepared to make his leave.

The man on the floor had yet to turn and look at him. In all their time together since Obi-Wan first appeared, he had yet to do that.

There was a sense of withdrawal, a growing distance – but right before Obi-Wan's presence faded entirely, the murdered man added, very softly: ”When you _are_ ready, I'll still be here.”

He opened his eyes then, and looked over his shoulder. The room was empty, dust dancing in the shaft of light falling through the arched window. A sense of peace, and – implausibly – affection, lingered, like the trace of perfume once the wearer has left the room.

Slowly, he stood and walked over to the window. Beyond the small town the neiden fields stretched out, budding green as winter once more gave way to spring. He could hear birds singing in the distance, and the sound of a gentle breeze rustling the high trees. Somewhere close by a child laughed.

Anakin Skywalker raised his face towards the sun, and let the light warm him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a partial quote from Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, and the whole sentence goes: ”And so I step up, into the darkness within; or else into the light.” It seemed entirely appropriate.
> 
> And yeah, no, I don't know where Luke is either. On an important mission or a long-needed holiday rather than captured or dead, I should hope, but who can say?
> 
> This is a one-shot, and I have no plans to continue or expand upon it. However, it is quite possible that I'll write other snippets from various AU scenarios involving Anakin and his redemption (because that is MY JAM but I can't be bothered to write long fic these days, so snippets it is). If I do, I am likely to post these as additional chapters to this fic, so feel free to check back if you're interested.
> 
> I'm keeloca on Tumblr, and I'd love to meet me some new SW-fans. Feel free to stop by and say hi. :)


	2. Here You Come Again

He's late, again, but he doesn't particularly care. It's hard to keep everyone in line, keep them all from rebelling (hah!), and if the actual Rebels can't understand that -

\- well, that's their loss. _He_ will not be moved by Obi-Wan's guarded, always-present eyes. He will not bow down before the scrutinizing gaze of Master Yoda, will not wilter in the face of Luke's open, trusting smile, no matter how much he loves him, no matter what he has sacrificed to keep his son alive and safe and happy.

”I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he intones as he sweeps into the conference room, voice hinting at him not being sorry at all. (He _is_, perhaps, but that is tied up to so many other sorries and if he acknowledges one, he'll need to acknowledge them all, and he'll crumble then, crumble and crumble, until there is no one left to hold his empire together, no one to hand it over.)

”No matter, Lord Vader,” Mon Mothma says, cool and unruffled as ever. She alone is standing; all of her allies are seated, all of the Rebels and the Jedi, and whomever else they've invited to this theatre -

He wishes it was over and done with. No matter that this was a theatre of his own making, the most peaceful transition of power he could imagine once the Emperor was dead, no matter that its conclusion will likely spell the end of his life -

\- he still wishes it to be over. _Done._

He moves to take a seat but is interrupted: ”Lord Vader, my apologies, but - ” The trooper in the door shifts his feet, uneasy. Anakin – Vader – Anakin frowns, but nods; _go on_.

”There's this lady and she insists - ” the trooper begins but by then she is already through the door, striding forward like there is no fear, no death, nothing but the light in which she walks.

”Anakin,” she says. Her voice, her eyes, are open, unguarded. She doesn't break her stride.

”Ahsoka,” he says, because what else is there to say. He remembers when her name was a blessing, and an invocation.

He remembers trying to kill her.

Then she is clinging to him, holding tight, her arms around his neck, her body pressed close to his. ”Anakin,” she repeats, and perhaps he cries then, because no one has said his name with such warmth in such a very long time, and no one has held him close, and he is tired of being a monster, and tired of being strong.

”Anakin,” she says, again and again, and he doesn't let her go; doesn't, until his name feels right on her lips again.

_How did you know_, he doesn't ask, because he realizes, even as he steps back to let her step into Obi-Wan's arms, that she would always know, and always show, and never let him step back into the light alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...don't believe in Ahsoka, for lack of a better word. She's not really part of my Star Wars? And yet here we are. 
> 
> Best of luck to you, Ahsoka. Above you only sky.


End file.
